


12:07

by peter_parkerson



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, College Student Peter Parker, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Minor Ned Leeds/Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Trans Peter Parker, Whump, he goes to columbia bc. i said so., lowercase intended, there's. no point to this other than that writing was my best outlet last night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 04:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peter_parkerson/pseuds/peter_parkerson
Summary: his binder is tucked away in a drawer in his dorm room. he’s wearing too tight sweatpants and the stupid convocation shirt columbia gave out to all the freshman, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, and his binder is in a drawer in his dorm room.he could put it on. he could, of course he could, but it’s 12:07 am on a sunday night (monday morning? he does not care) and his roommate is asleep and he really should be too. putting on his binder now would be like admitting defeat, because he’s should be sleeping, not desperately trying to avoid having a breakdown at 12:07 am in his dorm room while his roommate is sleeping ten feet away.and anyway, the binder isn’t the problem right now. his - hischestisn’t the problem right now.it’s everything else. which is funny, because usually it’s his chest - it’s the most obvious issue and the one people are most likely to notice - but now, at 12:07 am on a sunday night, he’s picking apart every single other part of himself that doesn’t match how he wants to be.





	12:07

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so. this is basically the result of my dysphoria induced breakdown last night. i wasn't sure if i was gonna post this here but i figured someone might need this just as much as i did

his binder is tucked away in a drawer in his dorm room. he’s wearing too tight sweatpants and the stupid convocation shirt columbia gave out to all the freshman, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, and his binder is in a drawer in his dorm room. 

he could put it on. he could, of course he could, but it’s 12:07 am on a sunday night (monday morning? he does not care) and his roommate is asleep and he really should be too. putting on his binder now would be like admitting defeat, because he’s should be sleeping, not desperately trying to avoid having a breakdown at 12:07 am in his dorm room while his roommate is sleeping ten feet away. 

and anyway, the binder isn’t the problem right now. his - his _ chest _isn’t the problem right now.

it’s everything else. which is funny, because usually it’s his chest - it’s the most obvious issue and the one people are most likely to notice - but now, at 12:07 am on a sunday night, he’s picking apart every single other part of himself that doesn’t match how he wants to be.

his hair is getting too long. his last haircut was before he left for school, almost eight weeks ago, because may cuts his hair and he’s been away from may for almost eight weeks. may always cuts his hair. he doesn’t like other people touching his hair. he’s scared of what he might end up with if anyone other than may cuts his hair, and besides, barber shops cost money that he doesn’t exactly have. 

his nails are painted a glossy black. it’s his own fault, really, that his polished fingernails are making his dysphoria worse, but he was trying to make a point about not letting shitty, cisnormative gender roles decide what he does with his body and he realized after his nails had dried that he didn’t think to get nail polish remover before he left for school. so he’s stuck with it, for now, because it’s 12:07 am on a sunday and he can’t go to cvs _ now _just to buy nail polish remover.

worst of it all is his voice. despite being on testosterone for almost a year and a half now, his voice is still too high, too squeaky, too _ feminine. _ he’d had the great idea to listen to old videos of himself singing (he used to record himself, sometimes, because he’s _ good_, and he doesn’t mean that in a bragging way, but people kept telling him he was and eventually he learned to believe it), and now all he can hear is the way his voice would lilt on high notes in that distinctly _ female _pop sort of style.

and he hates it, he hates it more than he’s ever hated anything else. hates his stupid hair and his ridiculous nail polish and his horribly high voice and he should just say fuck it and put his binder on because he _ knows _it would make him feel better, even if it’s just for a few minutes before he finally lets himself go to sleep. but putting on his binder means admitting defeat and admitting defeat means accepting how much he really, truly hates himself.

he should call someone.

may, perhaps. she’s good at talking him down when he gets like this, but no, she’s surely asleep by now and he can’t bring himself to wake her.

ned, then. he’d probably get out of bed and walk all the way across campus to come sit with him (it’s times like these when he wishes they hadn’t made the _ mature adult decision _to not room together in college because eighteen is a bit young to live with your boyfriend), though, and he knows ned has an 8:40 am class on mondays.

tony? he could call tony. 

tony doesn’t sleep, anyway. he’s always saying that if he needs anything, no matter the time, he can call.

he should call tony, because he thinks if he doesn’t, he’s going to have a complete breakdown at 12:07 am on a sunday and wake up his roommate, who’s meeting someone at 9:15 am tomorrow to work on a project, and it’s only been eight weeks, he can’t lose his shit _ already. _

he finds his phone in the dark (his roommate can’t sleep with the lights on), careful not to make too much noise, and dials tony’s personal number. 

it rings.

and rings.

and rings.

_ hey, i’m probably either saving the world or actually sleeping for once. leave a message or don’t. i’ll call you back. _

it’s a lot gentler than the voicemail on his work line. there’s an actual promise of a future return phone call, after all, but a future return phone call isn’t helpful _ right now. _

okay.

fine.

he’ll deal. he’ll deal by himself for the night (he’s always alone in the end anyway, isn’t he?) and tony will call him back in the morning, probably panicking because he missed a call from 12:07 am on a sunday with no voicemail and _ what’s wrong, are you hurt, do i need to come help you? _

tony will call him back in the morning. by then, he will have slept this off and regrouped and he will feed tony a bullshit story about being homesick and just wanting to talk.

and tony will apologize and they’ll talk for a bit - fifteen minutes, tops, because he will have to run to breakfast or to class, depending on the time - and he will be fine.

he’ll be fine.

he’s always fine.

he has to be fine.

(please let him be fine.)

**Author's Note:**

> take care of yourselves, loves.


End file.
